


just leave your mark on me

by phae



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Established Relationship, Injury Recovery, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Scarification, bottom!clint, dom!Clint, sub!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil may not be dead, but he doesn't really feel like he's alive again either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just leave your mark on me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladydeathfaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydeathfaerie/gifts).



> I had so many ideas that I kept going back and forth with, but I ended up settling on this one, C/C featuring some BDSM and knifeplay, with a little dash of domesticness. 
> 
> Many thanks to [icywind](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icywind) for helping me sort things out with this idea! And major kudos to [selori](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selori/pseuds/Selori) for swooping in to beta this for me! :)
> 
> Title is from Jessie Baylin's _Leave Your Mark._
> 
> _Leave your mark_  
>  _Just leave it somewhere on me_
> 
> _So that I can always find you_  
>  _When I have you on my mind too_  
>  _Even when you're far away_

Clint didn’t ask any questions when Phil kicked the apartment door closed behind him and shrugged his suit jacket off, letting it fall to the floor in a heap without a second glance before heading straight for the couch and Clint. He merely opened his arms invitingly and, once Phil draped himself over Clint, shifted minutely until they were meshed together comfortably.

 

Phil let out a weary sigh and burrowed his face into the warm curve where Clint’s neck melded into his shoulder, but Clint still didn’t push for anything, simply carried on making his way slowly but steadily through the DVR backlog of reality shows. Phil had half a mind to try and out-stubborn Clint by keeping mum on what was bothering him until Clint finally asked what was up, though that course of action wasn’t likely to help matters at all; Clint was far too well-trained at sitting still and quiet, waiting for a target to walk between his crosshairs rather than chasing anyone down needlessly.

 

Phil was in a petty mood, though, so before he opened up to what was very likely to devolve into a conversation about damn feelings, he sank his teeth into the meat of Clint’s shoulder. All he got in response was an aftertaste of freshly-laundered cotton on his tongue and a light smack on his ass. Moderately put out, Phil grumbled, “Nick’s giving me my own hand-picked team.”

 

“How dare he,” Clint hissed mockingly.

 

With a grunt, Phil pushed up off of Clint’s chest to let him see how very not-amused Phil was by Clint’s teasing tone. “I was rather fond of my old team,” he explained after a moment, and the smirk flirting around the edges of Clint’s mouth melted into a line that somehow managed to convey that Clint understood and agreed.

 

“We’re not exactly fit for our usual level of covert ops any more, Coulson,” Clint said, lifting a hand to settle at the nape of Phil’s neck and rubbing his thumb soothingly over the sensitive skin behind Phil’s ear. “You know, what with our likenesses getting immortalized in poorly-crafted action figures.”

 

“Apparently I’m not covert anymore either,” Phil complained as he dropped his head back down to Clint’s shoulder. “Nick wants a specialized team hitting the streets and looking into incidents with the SHIELD logo on display for all to see.”

 

“So you get to play the pretty assistant who distracts the public while the Director keeps the real mojo secure behind closed doors?” Phil could hear that Clint was back to grinning at his expense, and it irked him that Clint insisted on teasing him while he was trying to bait Clint into giving his opinion on whether he should accept Nick’s offer or not, because the whole thing had Phil in too many uncertain knots for him to make the decision himself.

 

“For all that I’d rather not be at all associated with the position, I prefer to think of it as acting as the face of the agency,” Phil replied flatly, too drained to keep up the bantering tone.

 

“It’s your own fault for having such a pretty face.”

 

“Clint,” Phil choked out hoarsely. He slid off Clint and down to the floor, where he knelt and looked up at Clint beseechingly, desperate to convey what he needed from Clint without having to express the actual words. He wanted Clint to tell him what to do, needed the choice to be taken out of his hands because he couldn’t be trusted with it, but he knew Clint wouldn’t give him that; that wasn’t how their relationship worked.

 

Because Clint had strict rules that Phil was in charge of all things work-related. At SHIELD, Coulson was the competent boss man and Barton was the smart-mouthed asset. Clint only took control when they were at home, and he was always careful to default to Phil’s judgment when an issue touched too closely on the business rather than the pleasure side of things.

 

But Phil had died six months ago, and he’d come back not-quite-Phil. His skin didn’t seem to cover his bones comfortably anymore, and his mind buzzed constantly with unsettling second guesses of every move he made. Whenever Phil got like this Before, Clint had been there with a comforting hand at Phil’s neck holding him down and clear instructions for Phil to follow until he dropped down under the surface of conscious thought and didn’t come back up until Clint pulled him there.

 

And now Clint was staring down at him with something like regret in his eyes, and Phil felt like a wave was crashing in over his head, the rip tide jerking him under. Phil closed his eyes and dropped his head. “Fine, I know, not your division. But you can at least get me out of my head for a bit, right?” he begged, keeping his head down as frustrated tears welled behind his eyelids.

 

Phil heard the subtle swish of rustling fabric and sucked in a deep breath through his nose when Clint leant forward to press their foreheads together. “Phil, babe, we can’t just jump back in to this. We have to talk first.”

 

“We’ve had goddamn months to talk,” Phil growled lowly. He started to pull back from Clint, but calloused fingers slid over his cheeks and around the back of his head to hold him still.

 

“Yeah, and in all that time you haven’t wanted to talk about the shit we need to talk about.”

 

Phil reached up to grab at Clint’s wrist and yanked his hand away, glaring at Clint stonily. “Because all I fucking do is talk about it. With the doctors, with the physical therapist, with the psychiatrist, with Nick—”

 

“And not once with me,” Clint interrupted sharply.

 

Phil’s shoulders slumped forward in an outward sign of defeat. “You’re about as ready to talk about it as I am. But that doesn’t mean we can’t scene together; this has nothing to do with any of that.”

 

Clint’s features were outlined in jagged relief as he stared Phil down calmly. “It’s got everything to do with it. You’re still recovering from what happened, and that means we’re not doing anything intense that could hurt you.”

 

Phil’s head shot up so he could better scowl at Clint, and he insisted, “I’ve been cleared to return to active duty. Recovery period’s over.”

 

Clint’s facial expression didn’t alter a tick, but something icy fell over the sheen of his eyes. “Yeah, congrats, you’ve jumped through all the hoops on the obstacle course and passed all the technicalities psych can think to throw at you. Doesn’t change the fact that _you_ don’t think you should be back out in the field yet.”

 

Feeling as if he’d just been punched in the solar plexus, Phil jumped to his feet. “I’m _fine_. And I’d be even better if you’d stop worrying about things that don’t matter and give me what I need.”

 

Phil then turned away abruptly and stalked over to the linen closet that held a veritable array of props and sex toys and very little in the way of linens. So long as he didn’t let Clint talk him out of it, Clint’s resolve to keep their relationship in stasis would soon break down. Phil just needed to speed things along with the proper motivation, like maybe fucking himself with a dildo until Clint wailed at him about how he was doing it all wrong and took over.

 

He was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, standing in his blind spot, and his muscles locked up as he tasted bile rising in the back of his throat. He was frozen between the gut instinct to flinch away and protect himself, or follow through with his well-ingrained training and surge back to attack the threat. Before he could move one way or the other, though, Clint slipped around in front of him and gripped his hip firmly. Phil let the solid touch ground him back in the reality of the moment and exhaled a shaky breath.

 

“We need to renegotiate things, babe,” Clint explained apologetically, his eyes clouded with an insufferable mix of worry and _I told you so_. “There’s no telling what kind of new boundaries we need to have in play—we probably won’t even know about the worst ones until something triggers a bad memory and one of us has to call it off.”

 

Taking a few moments to insure his voice would come out steadily, Phil reasoned, “Exactly. We won’t know anything concrete until we try.”

 

A guarded look fell over Clint’s face, and Phil swallowed at the sudden distance between them for all that he could feel the warmth from Clint’s hand seeping mutely through his dress shirt to settle against his skin. Phil’s voice broke as he muttered one more desperate _please_ , and in the span of a blink Clint’s entire demeanor morphed until all that Phil could perceive from him was calming confidence and an air of fond amusement.

 

“Ditch the old man shoes and get on the bed,” Clint ordered with a faint smirk.

 

A shudder of relief raced down Phil’s spine, and he toed off his balmorals before walking as sedately as he could manage down the hall and into the bedroom. “There’s this thing known as style,” Phil called back over his shoulder, a lilting grin slowly spreading over his face. “But I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that.”

 

Clint followed behind him a few moments later and went over to the dresser to look through the drawers for something while Phil situated himself comfortably on his back in the center of the bed. “Sorry, but I tend to go more for the survivalist look,” Clint tossed back. “I can stash a hell of a lot more than a measly razor blade in the heels of some good ole combat boots.”

 

“Quality over quantity,” Phil quipped, relaxing into the easy banter. His hands went down to his belt to start the undressing process, but Clint fixed him with a pointed look, and Phil obligingly dropped his hands by his sides.

 

Clint turned and closed the drawer with his hip, taking his time walking over to the bed and climbing up to crawl over Phil’s prone body. He lifted one of Phil’s arms, limp with a complete lack of resistance, and maneuvered it into position near the headboard. “Next you’ll be telling me it’s only the motion of the ocean that matters.” A grin accompanied the teasing words, but Clint kept his eyes on Phil’s wrist as he secured it to the headboard with whatever he’d pulled from the drawer.

 

Clint brought one hand down to start working at the tie Phil hadn’t bothered to remove or even loosen when he’d come through the door, and Phil registered that the cloth encasing his wrist was silk—another of his ties. Not Clint’s usual go-to for restraints, except in cases of spontaneous safehouse sex, but Phil appreciated the personal touch of it. At least until Clint’s hands moved over to work on fastening his other wrist to the headboard and he tested the give of his already-bound wrist. The tie was looped snugly around his skin, but Clint hadn’t even bothered to knot it properly. All that was keeping Phil’s arms tied back was his own self-restraint; he could slip out of the bonds with barely any effort.

 

Phil huffed out an agitated sigh and opened his mouth to complain about Clint still holding back, taking it too easy on him, but Clint dropped his face down and leveled Phil with a warning glare. “You don’t get to make the calls here, Phil,” he growled.

 

The hand keeping Phil’s arm above his head tightened gradually, the delicate bones of Phil’s wrist grating together until the pulsing ache tipped over the edge from welcomed restraint to minor discomfort, making Phil wince. “I decide what to give you, and how I go about giving it to you. You get to lie back and remember how to accept that. Understood?” Phil nodded quickly, and the pressure was immediately replaced with the soothing rub of fingers over his pulse point.

 

Finished tying his wrists, Clint sat back to straddle Phil’s torso and set about unbuttoning Phil’s shirt with practiced ease, pulling the shirt tails gently out from under the waistband of Phil’s trousers. Clint placed his hands low on Phil’s belly, the direct skin contact a warm and welcome touch, and inched his hands upward, parting the shirt to reveal Phil’s chest as he went.

 

Clint’s fingers brushed the bottom of his rib cage, climbing higher, and Phil’s breath hitched for a moment—in panic rather than anticipation. Phil didn’t think Clint had noticed the difference until he paused and pulled back, his hands moving down to settle on Phil’s clothed hips as he prompted quietly, “Phil? What was that?”

 

Phil shook his head and bucked his hips up to rub against Clint’s ass, trying to get him to leave it be and keep going. The sense of not-right lurking in the back of his head had finally started to quiet down a moment ago, but now it was all seeping back to the forefront.

 

Clint squeezed Phil’s hips briefly, his thumbs digging into the dips in his pelvis, and Phil refocused his attention. “Phil, there’s no secrets when we do this. You know that.”

 

Phil breathed out heavily through his nose and looked past Clint’s head to address the ceiling. “It’s just—the scar, I don’t like the way you look at it. Can the shirt just stay where it is?” he asked hesitantly.

 

Clint schooled his features into a careful mask of neutrality that he’d stolen from Phil’s own repertoire. “How do I look at it?”

 

Phil couldn’t hold in the bitter laugh that bubbled up from his chest. “Like it’s one of your least favorite things?” Phil frowned. “I get it, I’m not exactly fond of it either. It’s kind of a hard-to-miss reminder that I died and nearly didn’t come back.”

 

Clint eased down until they were pressed chest-to-chest and laid a chaste kiss on Phil’s lips. Not backing away, he muttered against Phil’s mouth, “But you did come back. You came back to me.” Phil let his eyes flick over to meet Clint’s for a moment before his gaze skittered away again at the well of love hidden in Clint’s eyes, that depth of emotion that they never mentioned aloud, only ever made obvious in their actions.

 

Clint pecked a kiss on either side of Phil’s mouth and sat up slowly. “That’s not what really bothers me about it, though.” Phil made an inquisitive noise but kept his eyes averted. “To me it’s a reminder that I wasn’t there to protect what’s mine. But mostly it’s that I don’t like seeing someone else’s mark on you.”

 

Phil looked back to Clint at that, and the possessive heat lighting his eyes stole Phil’s breath from him in all the right ways. “Why don’t you do something about it then? Reclaim your territory?” he suggested, his dry throat lending a raspy quality to his voice.

 

The corner of Clint’s mouth twitched back like he wanted to smile, but he was making an effort to keep his face blank and his voice even. “Yeah?”

 

Phil’s enthusiastic consent came out as a deep moan, and he nodded sharply, fisting his hands around the silk ties to keep his arms up where Clint had put them.

 

“Don’t go anywhere,” Clint instructed as he rolled off of Phil. Phil shook his head, and Clint smirked before ducking down to pull a box out from under the bed. Phil’s eyebrows scrunched together and he regarded Clint curiously, but Clint only patted his calf and sauntered off to the attached bathroom, box in tow. With a huff, Phil let his head fall back onto the pillows and prepared to wait.

 

An itch started to build under his skin while he tried to lie still, but minutes ticked by and Clint remained in the bathroom. Phil could hear the squeak of hinges as he opened a cabinet door, the spurt of the sink coming on, Clint moving things around, but he had no idea what it was Clint was doing in there, and the need to stay where Clint had put him was gradually being eaten away by the urge to slip off the ties and find out what was taking so long.

 

Clint’s voice cut through Phil’s haze of indecision then, echoing off the tiled floor. “Any ideas who you’re going to pull for the new face-of-SHIELD team?”

 

The incongruity of Clint bringing up Phil’s dilemma with his new assignment while he had Phil tied down and waiting to get marked up struck a note of discord that thoroughly distracted Phil and had him sinking back into the mattress in befuddlement.

 

“Seriously?” he called back.

 

“Sounded like you were getting restless in there,” Clint explained. “Still getting things ready, so I figured why not pick up the convo where we left off?”

 

“Pretty sure that’s not where we left off,” Phil huffed.

 

Clint hummed in agreement. “Well, I could always tell you about all the kinky things I want to do to your body, but somehow I don’t think that’s going to help you relax right now.”

 

Phil groaned as images—memories—flashed through his mind of the many kinky things Clint was inclined to indulge in with him. His cock began to swell, more than interested, but Phil recognized Clint’s words all too well for the tease they were. “Clint.”

 

“Make sure you find a new sniper,” Clint continued, his voice far too cheerful for the mental torture he was putting Phil through. “I’ll have to sign off on whoever you’re looking at, though. I’m not about to let just anybody watch your back while I’m not around.”

 

“I was thinking of pulling Ward off of his solo shtick,” Phil admitted after it became obvious Clint was waiting for an answer relevant to his question.

 

Clint snorted and something clattered around in the sink basin like he’d dropped it accidentally. “He’s got the skillset, I guess. But if the goal is to make SHIELD look good in the eyes of the adoring public, you’re screwed soon as he opens his mouth.”

 

Phil shrugged as best as he was able with his hands held over his head. “I think being involved with a team will be good for him in the long run.”

 

Clint walked back into the bedroom carrying a multitude of supplies and laid them out on the bedside table. Phil was rather caught off guard by his sudden lack of clothes, though, with the exception of a pair of latex gloves. “Yeah, good luck with that,” Clint drawled. Phil could only blink in reply, having completely lost the thread of the conversation.

 

When Clint noticed him gaping, he grinned and moved back into position straddling Phil’s chest, bringing gauze and a bottle of peroxide with him. “Figured I’d let you enjoy the view while I work,” Clint admitted. He kept his smile in place as he reached down to the edge of Phil’s shirt, but there was a cautious question in his eyes. Phil nodded and tried to smile back. It didn’t feel like much of a reassurance, but Clint seemed to take it as such and pushed the cloth aside, setting about sanitizing the scarred tissue over Phil’s heart while he bobbed his head along to whatever jingle he’d gotten stuck in his head while watching TV.

 

Clint shifted over to the bedside table to trade out items, coming back to sit on Phil’s still woefully clothed groin while he brandished the butterfly knife he’d chosen. “Remember this one?” he asked nonchalantly, flicking the blade open with a deft twist of his wrist.

 

Phil squinted, raking his eyes over the knife as he tried to place it. “Is that—?”

 

“The knife you pulled out of my gut after that unfortunate incident with the human traffickers in Guatemala?” Clint filled in cheerfully. “Yeah.”

 

Phil was about to roll his eyes when Clint dragged the flat side of the blade over his neck, tracing a line all the way down to his bellybutton, and Phil’s sigh of exasperation came out as a breathy whine instead. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he asked, “Why do you have that? I remember tossing it far away once I pulled it out of your side.”

 

Clint shrugged. “I like to keep souvenirs.”

 

“Souvenirs are postcards or tacky knick-knacks, not things that nearly killed you.”

 

“Tomato, tomahto.”

 

Phil was sure he had more to say on that topic, but Clint had turned the knife so that the sharp edge was just barely biting into his skin, leaving behind a raised red line in its wake as Clint pulled it up over the notches of his ribs, working his way around to the mess of puckered scar tissue littering what was once a smoothly muscled pectoral.

 

Phil’s heart rate picked up in conjunction with the knife’s proximity to his heart, and he waited with bated breath for Clint to stop teasing and get on to the main event. The seam of his trousers pressed uncomfortably into the hard line of his dick, and he couldn’t keep his hips flat on the mattress, rutting shallowly up against Clint. He was torn away from admiring the way Clint’s flushed cock bobbed as he rocked their hips together when Clint brought a hand up to rest against his cheek and asked, “Ready?”

 

Rolling his shoulders before dropping them back down, Phil nodded and turned his focus to steadying his breathing. Clint poised the point of the knife at the center of scar, pushing lightly so that the tip broke skin, but then he stopped and pulled the knife back. It took a long moment for Phil to break through the air of lust clouding his head and notice that Clint was staring down at his chest, at the steel blade resting against his skin, his eyes swirling with a mix of too many emotions.

 

“Clint,” Phil called gently, bending one knee up to prod at Clint’s back. “I want this. I want you to mark me.”

 

Clint blinked rapidly a few times, and then the smooth, confident smirk was sliding back into place across his face, and his eyes glinted with a wicked spark. Cool metal punctured Phil’s skin, deep enough that he could feel a shadow of sensation even through the damaged nerves of the recently healed wound. Phil watched as Clint’s hand marked a line through the heart of the scar, pulling the blade free and reaching over to wipe the blood off on the gauze laying on the nightstand before bringing it back to make more incisions, shorter this time.

 

Phil’s eyes shuttered closed as he let everything fall away to focus solely on the erotic slide of the blade slicing through his skin, a tingle of pleasure-laden pain fading into a moment of only the impression of a cut as the blade weaved over senseless patches of scar tissue and back to skin bursting with receptive nerve endings.

 

Phil was so content floating in a warm pool of endorphins while Clint kept his head above water, that he failed to realize Clint had unbuckled his belt and divested him of his trousers and underwear until the head of his cock was surrounded by slick heat. Phil’s eyes shot open and his arms reflexively jerked in his bonds as he tuned back into the here and now to watch Clint sinking down onto his dick.

 

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Phil couldn’t manage to get out more than a pleased moan. Clint chuckled and massaged the tense muscles of Phil’s abs as he bottomed out. “Back with me?”

 

Phil thrust up into Clint in response, eager to press their bodies closer together. “I’ll take that as a _hell yes_ ,” Clint grunted, rising up slowly only to drop back down smoothly.

 

They fell into the same easy rhythm reminiscent of the way they’d fucked Before as if nothing at all had happened to either them, as if seven months hadn’t passed without this. Clint’s aim was as masterful as ever as he dipped down to nip at the sensitive spot under Phil’s chin and raked his fingernails along the looser skin just above his hips. Riding Phil’s cock, he clenched his inner walls on the upslide until the rim of his hole caught on the head, and then he inched back down while keeping Phil’s pulsating length encased within the same delicious pressure.

 

Phil was fairly certain he was panting, or maybe he was the one moaning and Clint was the one panting. But then Clint was talking again, and Phil scrambled to reign his senses back in with great effort, trying to make out the words before he was coming, buried deep in Clint, and everything faded out into a comforting blanket of black.

 

\---

 

Phil woke slowly, thankful that the the grogginess keeping him from snapping awake was brought on by good sex instead of the bone-weary exhaustion of recovery that he’d become far too accustomed to over the past few months. He was alone in bed, but he could hear Clint puttering around in the kitchen and smell the heady aroma of coffee brewing.

 

With a yawn, Phil climbed out of the bed gingerly. Clint had stripped him of his clothes at some point and changed him into a pair of soft sweatpants. He shuffled into the bathroom and turned the shower on, shucking the pants and turning to the mirror to see what reminders of last night Clint had left on his skin.

 

There were a few red lines winding across his torso where Clint had traced the knife but not broken skin; the minor swelling of the irritated skin would fade in a day or so. Bite-sized bruises littered his neck, and four half-moon scratches decorated either side of his lower back. There was an adhesive bandage covering the scar Phil had been letting his eyes flit over without ever looking too closely at it for months, a small patch of blood visible through the flesh-toned fabric. Phil peeled the bandage back carefully to admire the brand Clint had carved into his skin.

 

Phil stood in awe, his fingers reaching up to circle the arrow Clint had drawn through the raised, jagged line where the hole in his chest had been stitched back together. Clint’s words from the night before filtered out of his memory as he stared at the context etched over his heart.

 

“You’re going to put together a new kick-ass team, babe,” Clint had asserted. “You’re going to get shit done, and if something starts to get to you, and you feel like you’re ripping apart at the seams, well then you’re going to call me and I’ll come running to piece you back together.”

 

Phil stepped into the shower and ducked his head under the steaming water, his cheeks growing sore from the stretch of his smile. He let any remaining thought of the uneasy buzz--finally, blessedly absent--fade away until it was forgotten.

 

\---

 

Phil stepped out of the shower and found a fresh towel warm from the dryer waiting for him on the rack. His smile quickly dropped into an exasperated scowl, though, as he looked down and found that his sweatpants had disappeared from the tiled floor while he showered.

 

Shaking his head, Phil stepped out of the bathroom and walked into the kitchen, following the sound of Clint’s voice as it faded in and out while he sang a song he evidently didn’t know very well, toweling himself dry as he went.

 

Phil settled the towel over his shoulders as he rounded the kitchen island and found his sweatpants covering Clint’s ass as he bounced around making pancakes. Phil cleared his throat to grab Clint’s attention and waited for him to turn around before rolling his eyes.

 

Clint grinned and sidled over to smack a loud kiss onto Phil’s cheek. “There you are,” Clint said. The words seemed mundane enough, but they bore a weight that Clint’s serious eyes confirmed.

 

Phil leaned forward and kissed Clint, languid and slow and all the things they’d never gotten around to the night before. Instead of pulling back, he rested his forehead against Clint’s and smiled softly. “Thanks for bringing me back.”

 

Clint grinned, reaching around to slap Phil’s naked ass, and promised, “Always.”


End file.
